


Do You Possess a Piece of Time?

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [36]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thomas Nightingale has PTSD, a bit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: It's not as if Thomas had set out to dismiss love entirely from the beginning. No, that would have been simply absurd, not to mention short-sighted. When he had been a boy he could barely tell his left shoes from his right, completely too young to decide anything of the sort.The decision had come later, much later. In fact, it hadn't really come about until after a series of horrific failures, the likes of which Thomas tried very much not to think of, for fear it would turn his mother spinning in her grave.





	Do You Possess a Piece of Time?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Person A has given up on love. Nope. Love is not for them. Forget that…. And then they meet person B and think; “Annnd this is the asshole who will ruin everything.”  
Source: <https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/183325607442/aus-and-prompts-list>  
Title: "Do you have a moment? Do you possess a piece of time? Do you physicalize abstract concepts and keep them to yourself?" _Welcome to Night Vale_ twitter, 17 Jan 2014
> 
> Originally posted August 21, 2019 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/187181388187/do-you-possess-a-piece-of-time-august-21-2019)

It's not as if Thomas had set out to dismiss love entirely from the beginning. No, that would have been simply absurd, not to mention short-sighted. When he had been a boy he could barely tell his left shoes from his right, completely too young to decide anything of the sort.

The decision had come later, much later. In fact, it hadn't really come about until after a series of horrific failures, the likes of which Thomas tried very much not to think of, for fear it would turn his mother spinning in her grave.

He had been fourteen, after all, when he had first decided to test his mettle against this whole "love" nonsense that English poets always put so much stock into. He had been home from Shrewsbury for the summer and his mother, bless her soul, had encouraged him to spend time out of doors, perhaps with the gardener's son, or perhaps the boys down the way. It had been Rupert Dance, home from Harrow, who had taught Thomas what it meant to kiss a boy and mean it.

He had been fifteen when he had come home to find Rupert Dance utterly besotted with the greengrocer's daughter. Eloise Blissett had taught Thomas how it felt to have your heart broken by someone who never knew you were actually serious about the whole thing, poor lad.

Now, Thomas was of good English stock and he took that to heart. It meant that you always paused for teatime and never let on how much someone hurt you, so he stiffened his upper lip and carried on. He determined that regardless of the way Rupert's kisses had quickened his heart, there must be something to the idea of _women_, else Eloise wouldn't have garnered such attention.

He was sixteen when a hastily aborted venture with Margaret Brown taught Thomas that no matter what other men might think of _women_, the entire notion was very much not for him, thank you very much.

He had taken a brief sabbatical from romance for the remainder of his time at Shrewsbury, much to the dismay of his mother, who had become rather over-hopeful when Ms. Brown had entered the picture. Uni, he determined, would be different.

Uni, it was determined, was not really all that different. For one, most of the same boys were now reading Economics and History right along with him. Much like Thomas, the other young men skipping classes were also destined to take their father's place in the Home Office and marry a young woman of good family to the delight of their mothers. Unlike Thomas, however, most of them seemed to be looking forward to it, as long as their destinies could be put off for a year or five, there's a chap.

Unfortunately for Thomas's mother, he really wanted as little as possible to do with either the Home Office or young women of good family.

Fortunately for Thomas, in the spring of his second year at Cambridge, he met David Mellenby.

Mellenby was reading Chemistry and his greatest ambition was to join the RAF. Thomas was instantly smitten. Mellenby was exactly everything his mother did not want him to associate with: a man who was not inclined toward quiet civil service and wanted to fly jet aeroplanes. Now, regardless of how his mother might have seen the situation, Thomas did not associate with Mellenby strictly due to his "unsavory" characteristics, no. In fact, Thomas spent a great deal of time with David Mellenby because when he bent over his chemistry notes his hair fell in his face and when he talked about flying his eyes lit up and when he smiled at Thomas, Thomas very firmly believed that if he did not kiss David Mellenby he would have a heart attack.

Mellenby kissed him. Thomas did not have a heart attack. These two events are not strictly related.

Thomas spent two years kissing David Mellenby and not having heart attacks. When the pair graduated, Mellenby reiterated his plan to join the RAF. Thomas's mother reiterated her insistence that he join the Home Office. Thomas decided that despite his mother's best attempts, a quiet life of civil service and marrying a young woman of good family was never in the cards for him. He joined the RAF with Mellenby instead.

The Royal Air Force taught Thomas how to fly and Mellenby taught Thomas how to fall. Then a crash during a training exercise in Germany taught Thomas the way grief and horror can catch in your throat and choke you, the way a leg twisted with scars can send you home, and the way the crumpled remains of a charred helicopter can lurk behind your eyelids and wake you screaming from a dead sleep.

Thomas's mother wasn't quite sure how to best help her son after his discharge. She took him to his medical appointments and held his hand and when he decided to join the Home Office, she took her victory with grace.

Thomas worked and moved into his own flat and built a life for himself, bricking up the holes where he had once imagined Mellenby standing. When his mother got sick, he took her to medical appointments and held her hand and when she died he buried her in the family plot next to his father. The last thing she said to him was that she hoped he would be happy, and perhaps find himself a young man of good family to grow old with.

By this point in his life, Thomas had very much given up on the entire idea of love. He had tried it a few times, but it had never seemed to work out, and even when things had been going well, fate had intervened and left him with scars, nightmares, and an empty flat.

Yet, his mother had asked that he try, so Thomas dutifully dusted off his best suit and asked Hugh Oswald to dinner. Oswald had been a year behind Thomas at Shrewsbury and had read Biology at Oxford. He worked now doing something with bees and Hyde Park, but Thomas couldn't quite summon enough interest to keep the conversation going over dinner. Instead, they exchanged half-hearted comments on the menu and quietly decided to go dutch on the bill.

Enough, Thomas decided, was enough. His mother had meant well, but it was obvious that there was no place in Thomas's life for another person. Love was for children, after all, and he was well beyond childish things. So Thomas worked at the Home Office and lived comfortably alone in his flat and occasionally considered getting a cat and then never did. He had nightmares that became less frequent over time and a leg that required daily stretches and a cane that he forgot at home as often as he could. And he was happy. Well, as happy as a man like Thomas could be.

It was January when a young man in a Metropolitan Police sweatshirt moved into the flat opposite Thomas. He was perhaps a half-dozen years younger than Thomas with a bright energy about him and an insatiable curiosity. "Peter Grant," he introduced himself. "And I work for the Met, but as long as you don't actually tell me about any minor crimes you're committing, I think we'll get along fine."

He was the opposite of Margaret Brown in every way. He had only a passing resemblance to Rupert Dance. And he was just like David Mellenby in all the ways that mattered. He was young, and Thomas wasn't sure if his mother would have characterized the Grants as "good family," but they certainly weren't bad, not to Thomas's way of thinking.

And when he turned to Thomas and asked if he wanted to get coffee sometime? Thomas opened his mouth, his knee-jerk "No, thank you" at the ready, when he realized abruptly that while he may not have thought there was room for love in his life, there certainly seemed to be room for Peter Grant.

Oh, he thought. Oh _no_.


End file.
